‘Julia, it is nice to see you outside with the baby.’ She looked at Slava. ‘So German looking, all that blonde hair and pale skin.’ She chuckled softly and looked at both the woman and the child. ‘What an odd pair you are, and yet so matched. Dark and light.’
Helen’s thick embroidered blouse erupted in waves on her arms, tucked into her full skirts, hands in pockets, with thick ankles stuffed into leather shoes. Her glasses were on top of her grey hair, her skin soft and clear on her face, underneath a chaotic sparse white bun threatening to unravel in a shock down the nape of her neck.
‘Your German is getting good, yes?’ She looked down and smiled at Slava looking up at her. ‘And your little one is very happy today, I see.’ She pointed up at the sky. ‘Grey clouds hiding the sun- maybe a good omen, with
the sun coming out, good things to come, no?’
Julia placed the clothespins in her pocket and looked up, squinting, the sky still bright despite the grey. ‘Well, yes, maybe. Who’s to know.’
Helen grabbed her arm affectionately and squeezed. Julia tensed as the bruises on her arms were still tender from the other evening. ‘You seem sad. And your arm so thin. Come. Some tea.’ Helen gestured for her to follow. Julia hoisted Slava onto her hip and went inside.
Helen moved around her house as if it were larger than it was, her full skirt and the way she gestured as she spoke with life and color. It was the prerogative of the owner, it seemed, to know how to use the spaces, despite there being little. Julia would remember this always. She studied it, this kind of rooted energy.
Helen smoothed the front of her dress and reached into the cupboard for a tin of tea leaves, withdrew two cups and saucers, and placed the kettle on the stove.
‘Now. What is it?’ She sat down and nodded for Julia to join her.
‘Oh, Helen, it’s nothing.’
‘Not nothing, Julia. I know your face by now. You speak even without saying anything. Your eyes are sad.’
Julia ached suddenly, for only a mother would say that. She fought the tightness in her throat. ‘Henry said he thinks we should leave. Leave here, find somewhere else to live, to work. Ridiculous.’ She looked down at Slava, happily rattling a few clothespins on the tile floor. ‘I’m so tired, Helen.’
‘Yes, that I understand. We are all so tired.’ Her hands rested on the table, fingers mildly bowed and arthritic, blue veins running like rivers underneath milky skin. “But, Julia. Think to yourself. Why is it so foolish? Staying here would be foolish. Look at how much it is changing already. The rules are always changing for all of us. It is quiet now, but for how long?’ Helen’s eyes grew intent. ‘Why do you not trust him?’
‘I do.’
‘Well then.’
The kettle boiled, and she left the unanswered words to hover. Julia watched Slava gum the clothespins, and Helen poured the tea delicately and brought the cups to the table.
‘Oh, no. That won’t do, little one.’ She withdrew a biscuit from a small metal box for Slava and took the clothespin from her chubby fingers. ‘Trust him, Julia.’
Julia sipped the hot tea and placed it on the table. ‘Well, yes, but I think—’
‘He hopes for the best for you both, I imagine. You know, when Martyn was alive—’
Julia smiled. Helen spoke of Martyn often. They had never had children, though they had tried and failed. They lived a quiet life and then Martyn was recruited to be a soldier in the German army during the first world war, and he had been young when he left; they had only been married for two years.
‘—he made the brave choices that I could not. He encouraged me to live in his absence. He guided us both when the world felt as if it were on the edge of insanity.’
‘I don’t know, Helen. This is what I struggle with. How am I supposed to know? What about me?’
‘But you are one and the same, now, Julia. You are a family. You are not alone anymore.’
‘What if something happens? What if I have nothing left, and all of this has been a struggle for nothing?’
Helen placed her hand on Julia’s; cool smooth skin atop her own warm skin. ‘Julia. There will always be tragedy and sadness. You cannot spend time thinking about what might happen. You must make choices and sacrifices for the ones you love. It is part of life. It is part of being a woman, and a mother.’
The steam dissipated and the tea grew cold as their
thoughts filled the room.
That evening, after Henry had returned, and when the house had finally settled into its quiet and Slava lay sleeping, the couple sat and listened to the faint strains of a radio broadcast filtering through the walls from the other room where Helen lay in her room. On the center of the small wooden table were two very small glasses of sweet wine, poured from a dusty bottle that Helen had found earlier in a drawer in her room (‘take some, it would be sensible for you both to enjoy something’).
There were two kerosene lamps in either corner of the room, flickering a ghostly orange light. Julia had undone the plaits in her hair, and it lay across her back and down her shoulders in a way that made Henry ache with a peculiar kind of sadness: a sadness that only existed when loving someone.
She didn’t notice him watching her, for she was looking down at the newspaper clipping that had stayed in the same spot since this morning’s argument. She smoothed it down with her long fingers and he noticed she’d been biting the skin by her nails. She spoke first.
‘Australia. Are you certain?’
He paused briefly, for his answer would never be as clear out loud, as he heard it in his head. ‘Well, we have to try. At least try.’
Julia stood up and moved towards him, stopping next to his chair. He looked up at her and noticed that the skin around her eyes was a faint red, swollen, as if the tears had long dried, but the sadness remained. She bent down and turned his face to hers, and gently, quietly, kissed him, and then drew back, and then kissed him again, lingering long enough this time to make it mean something.
She turned and padded to their bed, Henry following behind.
6
Munich
Munich train station was teeming and vibrating with groups of people-- so many more than they saw in Neumarkt-- like ants on a piece of food. There were covered wagons, train cars, military vehicles, police officers, families, soldiers. The station itself had a grand main ‘hall’, an impressive stone structure that stood in the middle of the forecourt, but as it was with other buildings after the second world war, it was being reconstructed from bombing damage. It stood proudly with parts crumbling and defaced, and yet still looked taller than it was; grandeur in the face of humility.
One-hundred and fifty-three kilometers. Two hours of road. Julia looked out of the back of the truck, trying to see through the gaps of people’s legs. It was early afternoon, and grey skies offered no indulgence of view. All she saw was a shrinking horizon, familiar landmarks that were moving out of her reach and changing into something new. Eventually, the roads underneath their bodies started changing from grit to a smoother, more sympathetic terrain. The air felt brisk and efficient, as if its sole purpose was to push them faster towards their destination. Keep looking up, she told herself. She clutched Slava to her side, feeling a tightness in the center of her chest.
The trucks pulled up and stopped abruptly, ordering everyone off. Julia held Slava as she shuffled off the back onto the ground, and looked back around, making sure Henry was there, with their cases. Everyone stood in groups, looking left and right, listening for direction. A command. Pointing. Shouting. Henry and Julia deduced quickly that they were to form a queue and walk towards the 6 train carriages that were to take them to Naples. The trip would take eleven hours.
‘Henry, will there be food on the train? I'm so very hungry. I only have the bread that I took in my bag, from Helen’s, from earlier.’ Thinking about food just made it worse, she didn’t want to think about it.
‘I don’t know, don’t expect it. Just ration what you have.’
‘Okay.’ She thought the best thing was to save the bread for Slava. She felt her breasts instinctively and realized she could still feed her as long as she had enough water for herself, so they might be alright for a while. She looked over at Slava, happily clutching her battered grey rabbit, now missing an eye, its legs dangling comically.
No one spoke, though glances said more than enough about how similar they all were. Not speaking felt like the last shred of privacy that one could keep; they had their own secrets and musings and fantasies of elsewhere to rely on. Julia leaned on Henry’s arm, clinging tightly to avoid being separated.
Acerra was a small town on the edge of western Italy and would be the final edge of land under their feet before they boarded the boat to take them to Australia.
It was dark when they arrived at the station, finally rumbling to a steaming, squealing stop. The few lamps dotting the station building looked like small, phosphorescent balloons. It was one o’clock in the morning, and Slava was asleep on Julia’s shoulder; Henry was leaning out of an open window, smoking, the smoke clouds mixing with his icy breath in the air. He had been in this position for the last two hours, unable to sleep.
Julia braced herself for shouting, the panic, the worry. She had been used to it for so long. But none of it came. When the doors opened and kind Italian voices waited patiently and reminded everyone to stay together, Julia almost wept with relief.
Yawns mixed with the shuffling of tired feet and bodies spilling out onto the platform. The night makes years out of mere moments, and tonight stretched like a dream with no end and no beginning, but soon, everyone was directed into lines and directed with torches to walk a mile towards small stone houses that stretched in many rows. Julia scanned the faces around her, and behind her: men carrying bags, sleepy children burying their faces into their mothers’ necks, old men and women huddling in groups like children. She heard conversations peppered with ‘...Where we go now?’ and ‘...Where do we sleep?’ and ‘...Is there food?’
Men were separated from the women and children, but not for any other reason other than medical exams and modesty. But there was no threat in it, and because Julia felt safe, she adjusted.
‘Henry, where will I find you tomorrow?’ She searched his face for answers as he separated with groups of other men, filtering from the crowd.
‘The line for food? I’m not sure, but I am guessing that during the day, we can be together, and at night, we sleep separately.’ He nodded respectfully at one of the Italian volunteers, and he walked over in response, overhearing the conversation.
He clapped a hand on his back. ‘Name?’
Henry looked at Julia and back at the man standing in front of him. ‘Hironimus.’
‘Dio! That’s a tough one!’ he laughed, black curls falling on his tanned face. His teeth were stained from nicotine. ‘Tell me an easier name.’
Henry smiled. ‘Henry.’
‘Much better, eh?’ He curved his body as he lit a cigarette and straightened again. ‘You all sleep in separate camps, eh?’ He pointed to the rows of stone houses with flat roofs, divided by a long building in the center. He pointed to the center building. ‘Those are toilets.’ He looked down at Slava, clinging to Julia, and pinched his nose, grimacing. ‘Whew! Very smelly!’ Slava laughed shyly.
He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Daytime, you can go and walk to the beach. Takes a little while, but the weather has been nice for it.’
‘And, food?’ Julia interrupted.
‘Meh. Food is terrible. Not much.’ He shrugged. ‘War, eh? But. Not too long until the ship comes.’ He smiled and clamped the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his hand outstretched. ‘My name is Angelo.’ Before he walked off, he leaned towards Slava again and whispered. ‘Means ‘angel’.’
In the morning, Julia looked around at where she had slept: rows of cots with thin blankets, cups and saucers next to the beds, to use for food later. Cases and duffels were piled in a corner. The walls were cold and damp, but not unpleasantly so. Bodies moved, slowly waking, and mothers hushed their children back to sleep in their embrace.
Julia walked outside of the barracks in the quiet morning, the sun peeking through the grey. There were rows of brick houses that had been designed to look intimidating in their hardness, but they were small and ugly in size, with small steel-barred windows and each building with a square concrete slab as a step in front of the door. They had corrugated steel roofs, undulating and silver in the yellow light as the sun rose behind them. They looked recently abandoned of their previous inhabitants, and Julia wondered where they’d gone.
The air was damp and mild, and the ground was thirsty, and high metal fences surrounded the compound, though they weren’t electrified, and they didn’t have those metal barbs at the top. The air smelled different, not better or worse, but less rigid and more substance to the breaths, more humidity, more of a mouthful for the lungs, and it tasted faintly of the sea. Slava would be awake soon, so she slowly walked back into the barrack, stopping at the doorway only to listen to the heavy breathing so many tired souls. Slava wriggled, pushed her face into the bed, let out a yawn and stretched her arms toward Julia.
A figure in the door appeared.
‘Prima colazione!’ Breakfast.
Lines of people streamed out of the barracks, faces curious, some even breaking into smiles. They all followed their guides to the main building where they would stand with their bowls in outstretched arms. Julia wondered if she would see Henry there. There were no tables, no chairs, just queues of hungry people and smells of bread and broth mixing with the smell of soil, petrol, and chlorine hovering over it all. It was because of the toilets: they were in a separate building in the middle of the empty yard, and were doused occasionally with large buckets of disinfectant, the smell permeating the top layers of air with a sharp, acidic pong. It didn’t matter. There was food. It’s all anyone cared about.
Julia looked down at her bowl: two slices of bread sitting on top of thin porridge. A piece of ham. She took the cup of weak tea and the both of them slowly shuffled a few feet away from the line and sat down on the ground.
‘Mama?’
Slava pointed at the bowl.
Julia ripped off small pieces of bread and ham and watched as her daughter ate happily. And then, separating himself from the line was Henry, and she saw his familiar walk, and watched as he approached them both, his shoulders softening with gratefulness.
Three weeks had passed.
Julia packed the last few things into the same worn duffle that had lived through too many wars. The chalk had faded, and the thick canvas was scarred with the paths she’d traveled. She remembered her mother, in their last moments together, as she balanced on her knees and folded Slava’s pinafore. The stitching had come undone on the hem and she wondered if she had time to fix it, and that detail then led to Julia searching for a needle and thread, and that led to her searching through pockets of dresses and coats and then to a pocket that had a picture in it. It was a picture of her parents: the one given to her by her mother, on her departure so many years ago. She turned it over and re-read the message on the back; she had read it from time to time these last years, as a kind of reminder of where she had come from, and how strong she had become.
May this picture be a lasting memory of us,
forever in your heart. Love, Mama.
She pressed the photograph to her chest and then slipped it inside the duffle, with Slava’s toy rabbit on top, then a blanket. She brought it up to her face and smelled the sweetness of Slava’s skin that clung to it, and she realized that the pain and nostalgia she was feeling was of motherhood: her mother had felt it, and so had her mother before her.
It had been raining all day, and Slava was napping on the mattress on the floor, a single sheet wrapped around her fat thighs. The doorway to the building was open, and the air felt heavy, the tin of the corrugated roof added a metallic taste as Julia inhaled deeply. Henry had arranged for them to have a
space on the next ship out to Australia. March 31. That was tomorrow.
She stood up to reach for one of the other cases, and her stomach suddenly cramped intensely, and the ground started to spin, and her breath caught in her throat. She held onto the edge of the bed feebly, and just before she fell back, before the spinning became too much and before her head hit the floor, she looked over at Slava, still sleeping. And then, black.
Have I been asleep for long?
Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open yet. It was pleasant, this feeling. It felt weightless, as if within a dream that lay heavy on her body. Then, a hardness underneath her hips.
Why am I on the floor?
She heard a cry. It was Slava.
She rolled over onto her other side and lay there for another minute. The heaviness was leaving her, and she was waking more, and then her eyes opened at the sound of another cry. And then she felt her body stiffen, her stomach muscles tightening in a knotted nausea. She grimaced and curled onto her side, waiting for the pain to subside.
She noticed the unevenness of the floor: it had faded and bowed with footsteps over time and smelled of old varnish. There was no urgency to tend to Slava just yet; she was protected by pillows around her on the bed in a sort of cushioned fortress. The pain subsided for a moment. Perhaps she’d not eaten enough, but she wasn’t particularly hungry. Julia stretched out and felt her spine expand deliciously. And then her stomach contorted again, in a hot new burst of pain. Nerves, probably. Anticipation. She waited for it to dissipate.
Slava peeked over her barrier, punching it with a doughy fist, exclaiming ‘Mama!’, and then falling back onto the bed, in a flurry of legs and giggles.
Outside, the entire camp was buzzing with energy, bodies of families milling about with a focused urgency, but no panic. The air had the faintest smell of salt, and it wafted on the air so gently; it reminded her of a dream she’d had about the sea. Or maybe it was the chlorine from the toilet block again. Julia moved slowly, her thoughts ahead of her, running rampant in last-minute questions about where they would live, what would they wear, where exactly they were headed, and more importantly, why she felt so ill.
Motherland Page 6